


Predilection

by Lola_di_Penates



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Drama & Romance, Endgame Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Eventual Romance, Ginny Weasley is a Good Friend, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley Friendship, Harry Potter Thinks Draco Malfoy is Up to Something, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Muggle Culture, Oblivious Harry, POV Harry, POV Harry Potter, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Sarcastic Draco Malfoy, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22448968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_di_Penates/pseuds/Lola_di_Penates
Summary: Harry Potter, owner of  an artisan coffee shop in the middle of Diagon Alley, has a customer that he just can't get rid of.  A story of temptation, caffeination and very healthy vices. Eventual slash. EWE. Yes, it's another coffee shop story that no one asked for.[Recently edited to fix timing inconsistencies]
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	1. Lukewarm

"I'm leaving," says a familiar voice at around five in the evening. Harry looks up into stern green eyes, adorned by greying, wispy hair.

Merlin, he's tired. He rubs his eyes and blinks stupidly at Luciana for a couple of seconds.

"You should too," his secretary barks again. "I think you should leave before any further damage is done to your robes."

He looks down at the brown, tea stains on his right lapel, which he thought had been rather conveniently hidden in the dark navy of the Ministry's robes. Now that he looks again, they are rather obvious. He sighs, and rubs absentmindedly on one of them with his left hand.

"Have a nice weekend Luciana," he says, attempting a smile. She looks back at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Leave those on my desk if you have other robes to wear home," she instructs. "I'll have those wand-cleaned and pressed on Monday morning."

"Right. Thanks," he mutters appreciatively. He knows Luciana is only looking out for him, but her strict mothering reminds him of a dangerous combination of Molly Weasley and Minerva McGonagall, and he isn't sure he could spend much more than the ten to twelve hours a day he already does with her at the office. He was warned that being an Auror was a difficult job and involved perfecting the art of reading people. This is something Harry has found exceptionally hard, having a range of emotional intelligence only slightly superior to Ron's. However, he never anticipated the other challenges which accompanied having one's own secretary. A secretary who prefers to act simultaneously as his surrogate mother.

"And don't spend all of your weekend at that cafe again," she continues, "or you'll come back just as sleep deprived as you are now. I know its almost Christmas, but we have to get that lot back to Shacklebolt in just over a week." She points to the mountainous stack of reports in the middle of Harry's disorganised desk.

"Of course," he says with an air of forced nonchalance. "I've already looked at a few."

Not a lie, strictly speaking. He had looked at the front covers of a few of them over the last three days they had been inhabiting his office. Point is, he has other loose ends to tie up, and the reports wouldn't become a priority until they were within 48 hours of their due date. The due date happens to be a week before the last working day of the year, upon which Harry will likely be stressing about things like Christmas presents and how to convince Molly Weasley he is, in fact, eating enough.

Luciana gives him a reprising look and backs out of his cramped office. "Auror Potter," she says, curtly turning on her heel and striding down the corridor.

The stack of paper looks forlorn and limp but Harry resists the urge to pick them up and pushes them roughly to the side of the desk. Future Harry's problem, he decides. He isn't sticking around today to do them. If Luciana is ever right about anything, it is that a tea-related disaster might occur if he tries to push his exhausted mind any farther.

Ten minutes later, Harry pushes open the dark wooden door to Ron's office just in time to see the red-head shoving his stack of reports messily under his identical desk.

"Not going to happen tonight, is it mate?" he grins, wiping his floppy fringe out of his face. "Look, I know if we get desperate we can just hole up in here and do them together, right?"

"Right," Harry agrees, hoping to Merlin that things don't get to the level of desperation where he has to squeeze himself and his reports into Ron's office to engage in an all-nighter of report reviewing. He and Ron have only been out of the Auror academy for three years, but unlike the field work where their war experience helped them outstrip their peers, their attention to administration continues to leave something to be desired.

Strange as it might have been, entering into the workforce an assumed expert was very overwhelming, however he thankfully hadn't been the only one struggling in that surreal situation. When Ron had suggested moving towards specialising in tactic and strategy, Harry had been wary, as his natural inclination had been towards investigation and field work. He still feels a little lost without his best friend constantly by his side in the field, but at the same time, he supposes this isn't like school, or hunting horcruxes. He isn't the assumed leader and there is no real difference in skill or power between them.

In this new world, there is no Chosen One, no secret connection into the enemy's mind, and thankfully, no personal threat to Harry's life.

"Look, I have to go home first and help Hermione make dinner," Ron says, roughly levitating and dropping various stacks of paper around his office, "but after that we should get a pint. We did that interview of one of the Kelley brothers' known contacts today, not to mention," Ron's voice drops to a whisper, "Hermione's dead scary at the moment. This baby's getting to her brain I think."

Despite his fatigue, Harry grins. He knows Ron is ecstatic about Hermione's pregnancy, but Harry has no doubt that Ron is not the most well equipped person to cope with any sudden, hormonal outburst.

"Fine by me," Harry says, "I have to go past the cafe first to check on something, so just floo there when you're ready."

Ron fixes him with an exasperated look. "You're just about the only person I know who leaves work to go to work," he remarks.

"You know," Harry says, as a quill gets squashed underneath another mountain of levitated books, "I think they say parenting is a full time job, too."

~.~

The whoosh of the steam wand and the fragrant aroma of the Ethiopian Blend greets Harry as he pushes open the door of the cafe. The shop, hidden away from the remainder of Diagon Alley by virtue of it being situated behind the Apothecary, is one of his favourite spots on earth. Somewhere he can hide behind the ivy covered trellises, and become normal; a nobody.

The shop has only been closed for five minutes, but it appears there is only one staff member left. Harry knows instinctively who is on clean up.

Katie, his seventeen year old barista, darts around the shop floor, levitating stacks of coffee cups and side plates, whilst absentmindedly wiping the tables with a rag by hand. Although Harry likes all of his staff members, Katie Cresswell is by far his favourite. She is hard working and diligent, and always there to pull the extra shifts when necessary.

The youngest child of Dirk Cresswell, Katie graduated from Hogwarts a year ago, but has been working on her summer and winter holidays ever since her sixth grade. Harry suspects her hard working attitude is probably a combination of wanting to support her single mother, and trying to push the after effect of the war far out of her mind. He admires that. He's been trying to do the same thing, too.

"You're late," she teases, cocking an eyebrow at him. Her hair is thrown up into a messy bun, which has a ridiculous number of fly-aways, and despite her dry sarcasm, it looks as though today has been a stressful one.

"Mad rush?" Harry enquires, stepping into the kitchen behind the main counter and flicking his wand at the remaining dishes in the large, commercial sink.

"Christmas has got to be the worst time of year," she sighs, scrougifying the foam wand. "Meldrid came in again today you know, and I think this time she only sent her coffee back twice."

"You must have made a good one," Harry says smirking. The old lady who frequents his cafe always had a thing or two to say about the quality of her coffee, despite asking for a quarter shot cappuccino with milk so hot it needs to be burnt twice over.

"I frothed it to about one hundred and twenty," Katie says, whooshing the foam wand again.

"Let me guess, not hot enough?" Harry says, openly smiling now. He can imagine the scene in his minds eye. Meldrid, coming in at precisely the same time as twenty other customers, demanding her coffee be sent out first and then demanding two more re-makes to her liking.

"Didn't know you were a whiz at divination," Katie says drily, then adds somewhat dejectedly, "Martin says he cant come in tomorrow by the way. His little one is still sick."

Harry finishes levitating the dishes into their stacked position. "I was thinking about coming in tomorrow myself, actually. Maybe I can step in for him."

Katie rolls her eyes, "you do know the point of being the owner is that you can pay other people to do the dirty work for you?"

"Haven't got anything else to do," he says simply. He knows he would rather work the eight-til-three shift than do boring things like read the reports that were calling him from his desk at Auror office or help Kreacher tidy his perpetually dusty house. "Besides, sometimes its good to get your hands dirty and mix with the riffraff."

"Pleasure's all mine," she replies, tossing the tea towel on the bench and scrugifying it, "but I'm still working the coffee, so you can do till and floor."

"Yes boss," he smiles. "You okay to open tomorrow? Ron's going to floo in soon, so I can close this up."

"No problems," she says, ducking down to grab her coat and boots from under the cafe bench. "Don't forget the password though, I don't fancy waiting out in the dark again because you forgot it and had to change it again."

"Noted," Harry says, waving her out the door.

With the jangle of the door swinging behind Katie, he slumps into one of the vacant cafe chairs and sighs heavily.

Opening a muggle-inspired cafe in the heart of Wizarding England had been a risk, but the business venture, so far, had paid off. The wizarding world had once again returned to their curious infatuation with muggle artefacts, and the coffee he sources from various specialty shops in London is of good enough quality it can coax away even the most ardent butter beer and tea drinkers. The cafe is usually full, and with Christmas shoppers inundating Diagon Alley in December, the business is struggling to keep up with demand.

The stress of effectively having two full time jobs is another thing entirely. Despite almost never actually working at the cafe, he is always finding himself making the short trudge from the workers exit at the Ministry to Diagon Alley. Mostly, he does various and somewhat pointless tasks such as rearranging the tables (much to Katie's dismay), or potting new plants to hang off the baskets and shelves he has around the place.

He really needs a life. Or a relationship. Or both. Despite being surrounded constantly by people, Harry feels terribly lonely, he admits. Things with Ginny were never going to work out after the war. He wasn't sure what changed, but the young infatuation had dried up so quickly, like old flowers in vase, and the petals had all dropped off one by one until there was nothing but the shrivelled stem left.

He certainly has no hard feelings towards her, but then again, maybe he doesn't have any feelings at all. There is a part of him that worries, inadvertently, that there is nothing left of him to feel. After seeing so many horrors of the war, he hasn't found it easy to slip back in to normal life. Certainly not in the way that his other school friends have. Not even Hermione, who Harry knows still has night terrors and carries a bottle of dittany everywhere with her.

Harry struggles to sleep sometimes, especially when the house he lives in creaks like it actually is every bit of its four hundred years. 12 Grimmuld Place isn't exactly what Harry had envisaged living in for his adult life, however the draw of it proved too hard to resist. It harbours memories of his Godfather Harry never wants to give up, and Kreacher's attitude change ever since the war has greatly increased the liveability of the place.

Resting his head on his hands he wonders how long Ron is going to take getting ready. He has work tomorrow, and if he doesn't get to bed before eleven, he might just have to call in sick.

~.~

"Merlin, she's a pain!" Katie hisses, on her fourth Meldrid-inspired coffee. The spiralling, muggle coffee grinder whirls as Katie taps out the excess in the pan into the bin, a little harder than is strictly necessary.

Harry has to agree with her, the old bat has been demanding as ever today, and the shop had only just started to ease up after the mid-morning Saturday rush. He's cleared sixteen tables in the last twenty-five minutes, which is a miracle considering that every single customer, particularly the old ladies, want to stand and have a conversation with him. It's like he's a magnet for people who want to tell him about their garden gnome infestation or ask if the Auror Office has done anything about their neighbour who they believe to be breeding dangerous chimeras but whom Harry knows is really just setting off a set of muggle fireworks.

Katie is looking more flustered by the minute and if he's not mistaken, three cylinders of coffee need refilling. Katie shakes the Mauritian blend and frowns, flicking the tab more violently towards herself.

"Harry, would you mind grabbing another, it's awfully popular today," she says, now tapping the cylinder towards herself to get the last of the grind out.

Cursing Meldrid for her love of the Mauritian blend, Harry levitates the dirty dishes from table ten before heading to the storeroom to get more of the coffee beans.

Without looking behind him, he flicks the dishes neatly toward the sink behind him. "Watch it, Boss," Levi laughs, ducking beneath the flying side plates. The young cook swiftly moves to the other side of the metallic work bench, grabbing two tubs of ingredients from the fridge behind him.

"Bit out of practice I'm afraid," Harry says ruefully, setting the cleaning charm on the dishes and hurrying to the storeroom to get two more bags of beans.

Levi just chuckles and goes about putting together the order by whizzing ingredients from various parts of the pokey kitchen. Harry catches the carrots and puts them down on the bench as he makes his way down to the back of the shop.

He scours the shelves for a good two minutes before he remembers he can actually do magic, and accio-ing the Mauritian and Ethiopian blend, he grabs both black packets and hurries back out to the front of house.

When he makes it to the bench however, he stops dead. He almost forgets about the packets of beans in his hands. One actually drops to the floor.

"Alright there butter fingers?" he hears Katie say, but he only half registers it. He definitely doesn't turn to reply. He has no time to think about anything else because in that moment his heart leaps to his chest in a moment of panic as he recognises the back of the head of someone he never, in a million years would have thought would enter his muggle-inspired cafe.

In usual Harry fashion, his brain leaps to fifty different conclusions, most of them arousing various levels of suspicion. He isn't sure why he's suddenly so nervous about this turn of events. Maybe, he thinks somewhere in his racing mind, its the after effect of having not seen this particular person in over six years. Not since the battle of Hogwarts. Not since Harry had, quite literally, saved his life. Harry had testified at the trials of course, but he had been called to testify during the amalgamated sentencing hearings, before any of the defendants had actually been presented to face their fate.

The blond hair is slightly messier, slightly less perfect than he recollects. The clothes however, black on black, on more black, are exactly what he expects. The fine, thin limbs and tall stature are the cherry on the top. There's no mistaking it. Draco Malfoy is in his shop.

He has half a mind to tell him to leave. What would a former Death Eater want with an establishment like this? Harry half wishes in that moment the shop was as busy as it had been twenty minutes ago, then he feels as if he wouldn't have had the time to be simultaneously stunned and curious as to why Malfoy was currently sitting at table twenty-one and lazily flicking through a stack of papers larger than Harry's report pile at the Ministry.

"Hello?" Katie says, jabbing him in the side with her wand. "You dropped the Mauritian blend, for the fiftieth time."

Harry ignores her statement. "Why is Malfoy in my shop?" He blurts out, against his better judgment.

Katie cocks an eyebrow. "He comes in almost every Saturday," she replies, amusement flickering in her intonation. "Only, you wouldn't know that since you usually drop in at eleven and leave at twelve."

Harry pulls a face in her direction. "You're too bossy," he says, still looking over at the back of the blond head. Against his better judgment he asks, "what does he usually order?"

"A double shot evil with a side of snob," she says, sarcasm rich in her voice. When Harry doesn't reply, she says "an Ethiopian blend soy latte. Whats it to you?"

"Malfoy drinks soy?" Harry says, eyebrows raised in surprise. He can't help it. His Auror training is going into overdrive and he's making a lot of assumptions about Draco Malfoy's personality right now. He doesn't necessarily need to, in hindsight, he has suffered from Malfoy's personality for years on end, however this piece of evidence doesn't fit the profile, Harry thinks.

"Yes," Katie, all matter-of-fact and tapping the milk jug on the bench to diffuse the bubbles in the foam, "now be a good staff member and deliver this to him won't you?"

Harry balks. He has half a mind to tell Katie where to shove the coffee on her person and go and do the dirty work herself, but he also doesn't want to appear afraid of Malfoy. She catches him staring.

She smirks, handing him the coffee mug balanced on a large saucer. The soy's nutty fragrance wafts up from the expertly poured latte art that stares at Harry as he accepts his fate.

Harry breathes heavily and wants to disappear into the coffee for a second, but then remembers that he has an investigation to attend to and makes his way over to the table in the far right hand corner.

Table twenty-one is tucked behind an overflowing pot of heart-leaf philodendron which hangs in tendrils from a long shelf which runs the length of the exposed brick wall. Harry potted a lot of the plants himself, and this corner was particularly full of greenery to make up for the lack of a window. Harry can see the appeal of it, being tucked away in a dark corner but having the benefit of seeing everyone else.

Malfoy, however, isn't taking advantage of what Harry perceives to be a fantastic people-watching location. Instead, he has is back to Harry and is deeply engrossed in something and so fails to see him coming, even when Harry is right over his back shoulder and wondering how he should approach the situation.

"Your coffee," he says, feeling very awkward in his own shop.

Malfoy simply waves his hand to the exposed table next to him and doesn't look up from the stack of parchment he's reading.

It's a very Malfoy-esque move, simply waving people and not acknowledging their existence, Harry thinks. He places the soy down a little rougher than anticipated and lingers longer than is probably necessary.

Malfoy doesn't look up. Twat.

So Harry does what Harry does best, and says something that later, he will attempt to kick himself in the face for.

"What are you doing here?" he blurts out, immediately regrets the awkwardness of it, and then realises one cannot literally eat their own words.

Malfoy looks up, appraising him. Harry thinks he can see a flicker of surprise in the pale grey eyes that meet his, but he second guesses himself because in an instant, its gone. The cool, collected gaze that meets his reverts back to its stoic indifference.

"Drinking coffee," Malfoy says, simply, raising a blond eyebrow. "And you are?"

"I work here," Harry says. He's not sure why he didn't say something impressive like "I own this place," which would be true and would also make him look like less of an idiot, but the moment has passed and he just lingers.

To interrupt the awkwardness, he crosses over to the booth opposite the coffee table Malfoy is sitting at, and leans precariously on the arm of it, praying that he isn't too heavy and the whole thing topples over.

When Malfoy says nothing but gives him a somewhat disbelieving look, Harry fumbles onward, "I've never seen you here before, thats all."

"Would you like me to leave?"

A somewhat surprising reply, Harry thinks. He wasn't expecting it, but then again he wasn't expecting to see Draco Malfoy in his shop either.

He pauses, appraising his former classmate. There really isn't much thats changed about Malfoy at all. Perhaps his hairline has receded a minuscule amount, and his hands appear slightly thinner, but aside from that he's still slim, tall and angular.

"No," Harry says, and then thinks about it again. Would he like Draco Malfoy to leave? It is obviously uncomfortable having him there, but then again, Harry has always liked keeping tabs on Malfoy, and from here it would be easy to see what he was up to. A tiny part of Harry's brain also wonders how many people have asked Malfoy over the years to go away. The thought makes Harry feel slightly guilty.

"Do you mind if I get back to these then?" the cool voice replies, gesturing to the pile of papers next to him.

Harry ignores the question, gazing across at the pile of papers stacked up on the table next to Malfoy. "They look as welcoming as the stack I have on my desk at the moment," he says, then realises he's just told Malfoy he works in a cafe and isn't sure if the other man is going to be able to follow his somewhat disorganised thought process.

"At your desk…in a cafe?" Malfoy asks, sarcasm rich in his voice.

"Er no, my other job," Harry replies.

"How many jobs does someone like yourself need?" Malfoy retorts, then adds, "surely people are falling over each other to give you their first born child, let alone anything else you may need."

The reply hits a nerve with Harry and he feels irritation flicker through him.

"Surely you don't need to work, Malfoy," he says, with a slight undertone, "your family Gringotts vault could buy you anything in Wizarding England."

"So it could," Malfoy says simply. Infuriatingly, Harry thinks.

Malfoy could at least show simple niceties to him. After all, there's a good chance that if Harry hadn't chosen to testify at the sentencing hearings, all three Malfoys could be spending their days in prison. In which case, Malfoy wouldn't be able to be annoyingly superior about his suspicious desk job, and file through his precious papers and sit in Harry's coffee shop just to ruin his day.

Harry realises that he is being somewhat dramatic, but there is something about his former school rival that has had the ability to irritate him by mere presence. Malfoy isn't the sort of being that could just pass through one's life unnoticed. He was more of an an annoyingly consistent character who knew the best ways to prod and poke and infuriate Harry at every conceivable occasion. Somewhat like a mosquito, really. Except taller, more aristocratic and less likely to actually suck your blood, although that wasn't conclusively ruled out.

He pushes himself up off the arm chair and is relieved when the furniture doesn't tip. Those extra kilograms Molly force feeds into him haven't done too much damage.

"Well," he says slightly tersely, looking for a way to escape the situation which his curiosity has created, "I hope they're not as tedious as they look."

Its a very boring and lack lustre reply, Harry thinks. He's never had Malfoy's wit, after all. But he does have much better flying skills, and he doesn't have a Death Eater as a father, and that is something to be thankful for.

As he turns to leave Malfoy to his papers however, Malfoy calls out.

"Potter, did you make this?" He flourishes his hand toward the soy latte sitting in the glass.

"No," Harry replies, somewhat intrigued. "Why?"

"Oh," Malfoy says, and Harry thinks he can detect a hint of disappointment in his voice. "Because the milk is lukewarm."

A wave of irritation crashes over Harry and suddenly he doesn't give a damn about professionalism. He has to nip it in the bud, because the cafe simply can't afford Meldrid two-point-oh.

"Sod off, Malfoy," Harry mutters and stalks back to the kitchen.

This time, he hopes Malfoy really does sod off.

He doesn't.


	2. Saturday Sessions

Harry tries to look casual as he knocks on Ron’s door on Monday morning. When he hears a muffled “one second,” he opens it wide anyway and leans on the doorframe.

Ron is halfway through levitating the stack of reports back onto his desk from their previous position on the floor. He narrows his eyes at Harry. “You should learn to wait your turn, Harry. I might have accidentally hexed you.”

“Why would you hex me?” Harry asks, pleased that he hasn’t been hexed but perplexed as to how Ron believes hexing anyone in the Auror office, possibly the safest place in all of Wizarding England, is necessary.

Ron shrugs. “You might have been a nefarious character.”

“I might have been Kinglsey Shacklebolt,” Harry says drily, pointing to the large stack of unread reports which now sit innocently on one side of Ron’s desk.

“Or that,” Ron agrees ruefully. “Don’t tell me you got in early to get ahead on yours. You’re very...jittery today.”

“I am?” Harry asks, wondering why his attempt at nonchalance is unsuccessful. He is leaning against a doorframe for Merlin’s sake. That’s the universal symbol for being supremely casual, isn’t it?

“You’ve had too much of that ridiculous hot bean juice again, haven’t you?” Ron accuses, narrowing his eyes.

Harry sighs. “Coffee, Ron.” 

He is permanently perplexed as to why Ron insists on acting as if he had never known about the existence of coffee. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had it before. They’d even managed to squeeze one in on the run from Death Eaters in London after Bill and Fleur's wedding. A few months ago, Hermione had forced him to try another cappuccino at Harry’s cafe, and even though Ron complained that it tasted of dirt and hippogriff’s piss (how Ron had any idea what hippogriff’s piss tasted like, Harry wasn’t sure), Harry had noticed that he finished the whole cup. 

“Harry it’s not my fault you enjoy drinking the extract of beans,” Ron says, waving his hand. 

“Have you actually ever tried hippogriff’s piss?” Harry asks, momentarily distracted.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You really are in a mood today,” Ron mutters, “my Auror senses are telling me something is afoot.”

“Gold star,” Harry says. “Put it on your promotion application.”  
  
“What are you going to put on yours? Your name, I suppose,” Ron says darkly and Harry feels a twinge of guilt. He has a sudden urge to change the topic. 

“So I saw someone suspicious at the cafe on Saturday,” he begins, trying to coax Ron out of his impending bad mood.

“The Kelley brothers?!” Ron barks suddenly.

“Er, no,” Harry says, confused as to why Ron would think two of the wizarding world’s most wanted criminals would casually turn up to his muggle-inspired cafe.

“Hmm,” Ron says, apparently unperplexed. “Sorry Harry, this case has really got me. I can’t think of anyone else right now.”

Harry takes a breath. He hopes it builds the suspense. “Draco Malfoy,” he says. To his credit, Ron looks intrigued.

“Slimy git,” says Ron, who evidently hasn’t reviewed his choice of insults since Hogwarts. “What’s his business in a muggle cafe?”

“Well it’s technically not a muggle cafe,” Harry winces. 

“But it is _your_ cafe,” Ron counters, “why would he even want to step foot in there? No offence, mate.”

Harry is confused as to why he would find such a thing offensive, but strangely he _does_. Malfoy has no reason to dislike Harry. If anything, Malfoy should _like_ Harry, given how he interceded on his behalf at the Death Eater trials. Harry knows Slytherins aren’t the most grateful of people, but they know a thing or two about _quid pro quo_. “I suppose he didn’t know it was my cafe,” Harry says, emerging from his internal argument. 

“Did he slither out of there once he realised?” Ron asks, eyes suspicious. 

“No. Well, I didn’t tell him it was my cafe.”

“What?”

“I just told him I worked there.”

Ron’s face is incredulous. “Harry, mate,” he says, exasperation lacing itself into every word, “I know you have that complex and all, but when it comes to the Draco Malfoy’s of the world, can you at least _try_ to one-up them?”

“One up who?” Comes a booming voice from around the corner of Ron’s office.

Harry regrets trying to look so casual. “Kingsley,” he says, straightening up as the tall man rounds the corner. “Ron and I were just discussing our reports.”

Harry has half a mind to scurry away but Ron’s glare stops him.

Kingsley raises an eyebrow at them. “And who is one-upping who?”

~.~

_You owe me a pint for that one, you git._

Harry holds the interoffice memo in his hand and mutters a quick _incendio_. He doesn’t want Luciana to think he’s sleep deprived and has an alcohol problem.

He replies quickly, scratching out his own interoffice memo. 

_Let’s go to the Cornish tonight. Much to discuss_.

Flicking it towards the door he pulls the first report over from the pile on his desk and stares, unseeing at it’s cover.

Why did Malfoy, of all people, have to be a customer at Harry’s shop? Surely he was far too ridiculously snobby to want to hang about in a muggle-inspired cafe. Ron is right, it is suspicious. 

Another question, Harry muses as he pores over the report without really reading it, is why he feels so _awkward_ about his conversation with Malfoy. Upon reflection, it had been a very strange conversation. Harry had simultaneously felt guilty for making Malfoy feel unwelcome, and irritated that he was there. Wanting Malfoy to leave, but also wanting him to...stay? 

Harry chalks the last one up to his curiosity. It’s just like at Hogwarts, he rationalises. He needs to have one eye on Malfoy at all times for security purposes. Malfoy has always been a threat (albeit a mild one). Harry is right to be curious about it all.

He wonders what Malfoy does for a job. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wonder long because being an Auror comes with a wide variety of perks, all of which are definitely to be used for the purposes of catching dark wizards and witches and not for keeping tabs on your teenage nemesis. 

“Luciana,” he calls into the near empty hallway. His grey-haired secretary whisks in, notepad and quill at the ready. Harry thinks she always looks like there’s an emergency of some kind. She frowns at him.

“You’re awfully jittery today Auror Potter,” she says, brows furrowing.

Harry sighs. “Really? Ron said the same thing.”

She narrows her eyes in response. Clearly, Harry thinks, Luciana rates herself more highly than Ron in matters of observation. 

“Have you been drinking that energising, dirt-water again?” she asks in an accusing tone.

“Oh for Merlin’s sakes,” Harry exclaims, “it’s called coffee!”

“You have, haven’t you,” she continues. “I can see it on your robes.”

Harry looks down at his lapel and sighs. It is becoming a regular occurrence. He decides to push on with his request. “Luciana could you do an employment and location check for me?” he asks, trying to shift the attention towards work and wondering how he can make this request sound as professional as possible.

“Certainly, Auror Potter,” she says, snapping back into work-mode.

“Great. I need one on Draco…” Harry pauses, trying to think of Malfoy’s middle name. He tries to recall the tapestry at 12 Grimmauld Place but is coming up blank. Upon reflection, he doesn’t think he ever knew it, but he could have a pretty safe guess. A family like the Malfoys surely thought themselves highly enough to give their children their own name. “ _Lucius_ Malfoy,” he finishes, then immediately frowns as he realises his parents appear to have followed similar naming conventions.

Luciana cocks an eyebrow, which makes her look rather severe. “What for?” she asks.

“Er, a potential lead,” Harry says, taken aback by the question. He wonders whether Luciana knows Malfoy in some capacity. Harry dearly hopes not.

Just then, another interoffice memo flies into his office, colliding with the back of Luciana’s head. She turns indignantly to face the piece of paper now flying towards Harry. He catches it easily.

“If that’s from Auror Weasley, tell him he needs to work on his aim,” she huffs, stalking out of his office.

Harry opens the memo.

_Can pregnant women not drink or something? Hermione was in a right foul mood when I fire-called to ask her if she wanted to come to the pub tonight._

~.~

“What on earth is a lemon, lime and bitters?” Harry asks Hermione when he gets back from the bar, juggling two pints and a strange, cordial-like drink.

“It’s a muggle thing,” she says flippantly, “Mum and Dad became obsessed with them in Australia. Terrible for your teeth, apparently.”

“Doesn’t bitters have alcohol in it?” Ron asks, and Harry kicks him under the table.

Hermione glares at both of them. Harry raises both of his hands in instant capitulation. 

While Hermione and Ron launch into a bickering session that could last until they are all deceased, Harry scans the crowd at the Cornish Arms. They choose the muggle pub routinely because the muggle paraphernalia and exclusively muggle drinks would likely overwhelm any witch or wizard. It is also full of weirdly dressed, young types which help them blend in.

Not that they wear their work robes to the pub but, as Harry has started to realise recently, their fashion sense is becoming more out of touch with London’s muggle youth. 

He is only 25 for crying out loud. Why does he feel so _old_? Being an Auror really is ageing him prematurely, he thinks. Or maybe it’s being an entrepreneur? Probably both.

He takes a sip of his beer. It’s cool on his tongue and simultaneously warms his insides as it makes its way down his throat. Maybe he does have an alcohol problem, he thinks, looking down at himself. The beer definitely isn’t doing anything to improve his physique. Temporarily being stuck in the office isn't either. He makes a mental note to research an exercise routine on the new computer he purchased for himself for his last birthday. The internet is a wild place, he thinks.

“Okay, you’re right,” Harry hears Ron say, and knows the bickering is almost at an end. Hermione eyes him suspiciously over the rim of her tall glass and takes a sip.

“How has your week been, Harry?” she asks. Harry knows that question is Hermione-code for _what’s wrong now? You’re looking miserable again_. _You know Harry, you really should be talking to someone about this._

He ignores her pointed look. 

“Malfoy, _Draco Malfoy_ , was in his shop!” Ron interjects on Harry’s behalf. “Harry told him that he _worked_ there.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at Ron. “Are you Harry? Anyway, Harry _does_ work at his cafe, doesn’t he?”

“But he also owns it,” Ron grumbles, shooting a furtive glance at Harry.

Harry remembers that he threw Ron under the metaphorical bus this morning and feels as though he should back him up, even if he’s wrong. “I guess I should have mentioned that,” he says, and Ron does a minuscule nod of his head.

“And what’s wrong with Malfoy being in your shop, anyway?” Hermione asks, “it’s a free country.”

Harry and Ron look at her with varying levels of outrage. 

“What?!” she protests, daring them to disagree with her.

Usually, Harry wouldn’t bother. Hermione is usually right, if usually means in ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of cases. 

“Hermione,” Ron begins. Harry thinks this direct approach is exceptionally brave with Hermione, who is clearly already in an irritable mood due to the great Angostura Bitters debate.

“You have to admit that _Malfoy,_ of all people, being in _Harry’s_ shop is suspicious! It’s a muggle cafe!”

“Muggle-inspired cafe,” Harry mutters, but nonetheless goes along with Ron’s line of thinking.

“Yes, but he didn’t know it’s Harry’s cafe, Ron,” Hermione says slowly, as if Ron and Harry are struggling to comprehend simple logic. “And I can imagine Malfoy would like exotic things, and Harry’s cafe is somewhat...different.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at her. 

“He’s definitely up to something, Harry,” Ron says, ignoring Hermione. 

“No he’s not, Ron,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“He’s probably keeping tabs on you for something,” Ron says, directing his attention at Harry and ignoring Hermione who is having a minor meltdown. “We should see if he’s there this Saturday.”

“Surely, for two Aurors, there are bigger fish to fry than Draco Malfoy being in someone’s cafe!” Hermione exclaims.

“Why would we fry fish?” Ron asks, very genuinely.

Hermione puts her hands to her temples and closes her eyes. “It’s an _expression_ , Ron.”

“Not a very good one,” he says, frowning.

“My point is,” she says, regaining her composure, “that you have bigger things to worry about than someone from Hogwarts who happens to turn up in _Diagon Alley_ of all places. It’s a perfectly ordinary thing for Malfoy to be doing and you’d be best just forgetting all about-”

“Did you do an employment search?” Ron asks Harry while Hermione is finishing her sentence. Harry nods, but tries to turn it into a shake when he sees Hermione’s incredulous face.

“What?! That’s misuse of your powers, Harry!”

“He’s keeping track of a former Death Eater,” Ron points out. “Perfectly legal.”

Hermione just glares, lips pursed into a thin line. “I don't like this obsession, Harry. You _do_ remember what happened last time you came up with a wild theory on Malfoy.”

 _Sectumsempra_. Harry thinks this is rather harsh. “But my theory was right, wasn’t it?” Harry points out.

Hermione puts her head in her hands and sighs.

~.~

Harry doesn’t stop off at the cafe on Friday night. Despite their mediocre efforts, he and Ron find themselves predictably holed up in Ron’s office late on Friday finishing their review of the field reports that Kingsley is expecting the following Monday morning. To their mutual despair, they don’t even manage to finish them by the time Ron involuntarily falls asleep, so they meet each other back, bleary eyed and irritable on Saturday at 7 am for another go at it.

To add insult to injury Harry thinks, Luciana wasn’t even able to turn up anything on Malfoy’s employment search. The location search indicated that Malfoy was no longer living in Salisbury, Wiltshire (which Harry envisages is probably the location of the Malfoy Manor), but in Bayswater, London. It is hardly going to be a housing downgrade in Bayswater Harry considers, but he has to admit he is surprised in Malfoy’s choice of suburb. Bayswater is very _muggle_.

The employment search, meanwhile, shows up nothing. Which, as Harry and Ron discuss over what feels like their hundredth report, means Malfoy has to be unemployed. This is at odds with what Malfoy told Harry last Saturday, so it makes the pair of them all the more suspicious. 

Ron finishes his reports well before Harry and leaves the latter despairingly flicking through his last eighty-odd pages. By the time he finishes it’s noon, and far too late for a nap. What he really needs is a coffee, and that thought carries him from his office, deep in the bowels of the Ministry, to the chilly streets of Diagon Alley.

The morning rush has subsided by the time Harry walks in, and he’s even more pleased to see Meldrid is nowhere in sight. Blearily, he casts a pleading look at Katie from in front of the register.

“You should learn to sleep more,” she says, prodding his cheek with her finger as he collapses his head onto his hands on the counter top. 

“Help me,” he groans. “I need coffee.”

“Spoken like a true addict, Harry,” she says, grinning. “I’ll make a latte for you if you get up off the bench and stop scaring off the customers.”

She pulls a stool out from behind her and motions for him to come around the counter and sit in the poky corner next to the coffee machine. He stumbles a bit on his way around.

“Better make it an espresso shot as well,” she laughs, “how many Firewhiskies did you have last night?”

“The Ministry doesn’t supply Firewhisky,” Harry deadpans, “just an endless supply of work.”

“You should quit,” she says, in a matter-of-fact way. “Find a new job with better work-life balance. I’ll hire you.”

“How generous,” he says, as she hands him the espresso shot.

Harry doesn’t give it a chance to cool before he downs it as if it really were Firewhisky. It’s slightly too hot and he winces as it burns his insides. “How do I look?” he asks, after he recovers from the mild heartburn.

Katie appraises him whilst simultaneously frothing the milk. “I’d rate your energy levels as two-out-of-ten. I took off one point because your hair is a mess.”

“It’s always a mess,” Harry frowns, patting the unruly hair on his crown down. “I can’t help it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” she quips, pouring the latte. “Here, this could elevate you back to a three.”

He takes the latte gingerly and holds it in his lap. The warmth of the milk through the glass shoots through him and immediately makes him feel comfortable and tired. The opposite of the desired effect, he thinks, but it also might have to do with the fact that he’s so comfortable sitting here, in his cafe, Katie chattering away as she takes orders and makes coffee for the dribs and drabs of people making it through the December chill.

Harry eventually wanders into the kitchen, chats to Levi for a bit and gratefully accepts an egg on toast. He’s mindlessly rearranging the drawer of spare mugs when Katie ducks her head in and asks Levi if he would mind covering for her out the front for 10 minutes. 

“Since when do you smoke?” Harry asks as she pulls a thin packet out of her bag below the back counter.

“Since a while,” she says, waving a hand dismissively but looking somewhat guilty.

Harry looks at her in a way which he hopes comes across as disapproving but probably looks mildly shocked. 

"You know that's terrible for you, right?" He says.

Winking mischievously, she pats him on the shoulder and says, "just don't tell my mum, okay?"

He rolls his eyes but tells Levi he'll cover the front in her absence. Less than ten minutes later she's back with him, smelling strongly of chewing gum and some kind of perfume charm. 

"You smell nice," Harry says drily.

"That’s an inappropriate workplace comment," she snaps back, but Harry can see a small smile on her lips.

“Are you going to be smashing those down next week at our Christmas party too?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Not as quickly as you’ll be sinking Firewhisky shots with me,” she says prodding him.

“Unlikely,” he replies, “hangovers get worse as you get older, remember that.”

She turns to face him. "Look. We all have our vices, right? Yours is working a million hours a week and mine is having a cigarette every now and again." Her face is friendly but her tone says _deal with it, Harry._

He knows he's too invested in her. She's just about to turn 18, only 7 years younger than him, but in a way he feels very protective of her. Katie doesn't really need protection, he knows that. She has older twin brothers that could flatten him in a minute. But there is an undeniable connection he feels with people who have lost family in the war. Selfishly, Harry is sort of glad there are now so many survivors who understand the pain of losing one's parents. It makes him feel less alone.

"So if I quit one of my jobs and get a social life you'll give it up?" he asks, teasing her to try and lighten the mood.

"Sure," she says, shrugging her shoulders, "Only because i know the chances of that happening are roughly the same as me winning a billion galleons."

"The work part or the social life part?" Harry asks, concerned.

"Is there a difference?" She asks. "You can't have a social life if you're always at work."

Harry sighs. She's not wrong. He rests his head against the wall and shuffles himself into a more comfortable position on the hard stool.

Just as he is about to drift off into despondency over the dire state of his social life, fate deals him another blow.

Draco Malfoy strides into the cafe, hair windswept but otherwise looking inappropriately well put together despite the mild blizzard that is brewing outside. Harry bets Draco Malfoy has a social life. Rich people are always invited to events, Harry imagines, even if they accidentally become part of a failed, murderous plot for worldwide domination. 

“Happy Saturday, Draco,” Katie pipes up from behind the coffee machine. “The usual?”

Harry thinks this greeting is far too familiar for someone who fraternised with the person that killed her father, but he says nothing. 

“Thank you, Katie,” he says, in a tone that Harry thinks is too _proper_ for his cafe. 

“Oh hello, Potter,” Malfoy says as an afterthought after seeing Harry propped up on the stool behind the counter. “Working hard, I see,” he smirks.

Harry seethes. He owns this cafe! He can sit wherever he bloody well likes! He doesn’t get a chance to retort, however, because Malfoy stalks away towards the back of the cafe to hide in what appears to be his favourite spot amongst the philodendrons. Philodendrons are highly toxic, Harry thinks. Maybe Malfoy will eat one by mistake.

He shakes that absurd thought from his head and looks up at Katie who is sniggering at him.

“Easy Potter,” she laughs, “you’re too easy to rile up.”

“How do you stand him?” he asks, incredulously. “He’s twenty times worse than Meldrid.”

“He’s actually very nice once you get to know him,” she says, “although he seems to get under your skin more than the average person.”

She wiggles an eyebrow. Harry frowns at her.

“He’s just so... _Malfoyish_ ,” Harry says darkly.

She grins, turning to face the coffee machine again. “Really Harry, you should make an effort to talk to him. Think of it as making reparations.”

“I’m not the one who needs to make reparations,” Harry mutters, scowling.

“I know,” she says, “but I think he wants to.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow at her. He highly doubts Malfoy wants to apologise to him, or discuss the goings on of the war at all. In fact, he would hazard a guess that Malfoy tries his hardest not to think of the war, unless it is scheming of ways to repair his image. Harry imagines Malfoy probably hosts a charity ball or two for that exact reason. Then again, he has another reason to talk to people now.

“If I go and talk to him does that mean I have a social life?” 

“Honestly,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “sometimes I’m surprised you’re not a Slytherin.”

“Then I won’t do it.”

“Come on,” she replies, smirking, “everyone loves a reformed Death Eater.”

 _No they don’t,_ Harry thinks. But he says nothing as Katie once again hands him the soy latte and sends him into the Philodendron lair. 

~.~

“Perhaps I should work here,” Draco Malfoy says, as Harry puts the soy latte down and slides into the booth opposite him. “It seems to have a relaxed policy towards actually working. Very _laissez-faire_.”

Harry scowls. “I’ll be sure to pass your comments on to the owner,” he says, pushing himself back up to walk away. He honestly isn’t sure why he is bothering with Malfoy, of all people. He must be seriously losing the plot.

“Don’t be like that,” Malfoy says, a little too quickly. “I was only joking.”

Harry cautiously props himself up onto the top of the booth. He isn’t ready to commit to sitting back down.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” Harry asks, eyeing off the open briefcase which Malfoy dragged in. He recalls that the employment search came up with no results, but the evidence would suggest Malfoy is definitely working on something. Harry has an insatiable desire to find out what that something may be.

“Working,” Malfoy says, simply.

“On a Saturday?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not that strange, is it?” Malfoy asks. “You’re working.”

Fair point, Harry thinks. He has, in fact, been to both of his jobs today. “On what?” he asks.

“This and that,” Malfoy says, infuriatingly.

“Anything in particular?” Harry presses.

“No, not really,” Malfoy replies. 

“Are you always this annoying?” Harry says, frowning again.

Malfoy raises one, perfect blond eyebrow. “Other people don’t seem to find me annoying.” He says it so honestly in that disarming way which makes Harry feel guilty. “Prejudiced, maybe. But not annoying.”

Harry’s stomach flips and he feels slightly ill. He wonders why he feels so _sorry_ for Malfoy. It’s not as if he doesn’t deserve it. “Maybe you just like to annoy me,” he says lamely.

“It’s always been my specialty,” Malfoy retorts, but there’s no malice in his tone. He looks at Harry appraisingly. “Why are you talking to me?” 

Harry tries to think on his feet. It doesn’t go well. “I don’t have anything better to do,” he says.

Malfoy smirks, but Harry senses a sadness behind it that sticks to him. It makes the atmosphere feel heavy and oppressive. He wonders whether Malfoy is lonely despite the charity balls and other rich-person social events he imagines a Malfoy must attend. 

“Is that a backhanded way of saying I interest you?” Malfoy asks. It’s a very Slytherin thing to say, Harry thinks. A Gryffindor would never assume such an inference. 

“It depends,” Harry says. He’s about to mention something about trying to murder a headmaster, poisoning one of his best friends and vanishing cabinets but he stops himself just in time.

“On what?” Malfoy asks, leaning forward slightly.

“This and that,” Harry retorts.

Malfoy scowls. Harry feels a great sense of achievement.

“Do you always drink soy?” He asks, trying to steer the conversation towards something relatively non-controversial. 

“Yes,” Malfoy says, “I’m lactose intolerant.”

Harry groans internally. _Of course_ Malfoy is lactose intolerant, he thinks. 

“It’s not that bad,” Malfoy says, misreading Harry’s apparent exasperation. 

“What about ice cream and chocolate?” Harry asks, wondering if Malfoy is one of those lactose intolerant people who are secretly gluttons-for-punishment and like to put their intolerance to the test. 

“What about them?” Malfoy asks, scooping a bit of froth up on the teaspoon and licking it gently.

The first thing that registers with Harry is that Malfoy has a very nice tongue. It's a strange thing to think about a person, but it _is_ a nice shade of pink, Harry thinks as Malfoy's tongue delicately darts along the silver utensil. 

The next thing Harry registers is that his eyes have become involuntarily transfixed. He tries to tear them away, but he fails. He feels like his eyes are being pried open like in that odd muggle movie Hermione made him watch about criminals and clocks. The cafe feels a million miles away. He tries to swallow but his throat feels simultaneously as dry as the Sahara desert and like it has a bezoar stuck in there. He remembers that Malfoy has asked a question but he can’t recall what it is.

 _Impossible_. Was he actually watching Draco Malfoy lick a spoon right now? He really has lost his mind. 

“Potter?” Malfoy says, sounding slightly concerned. 

Harry coughs. “Sorry, um, chocolate, yes.”

“Are you okay?” Malfoy asks, a small smirk playing on his lips.

Harry desperately hopes Malfoy thinks he has just had a momentary lapse in concentration and was not just obsessing over his tongue on a _teaspoon_ for Godric’s sakes.

“Fine,” he mutters. But he’s not fine. His world is spinning slightly and he feels very out of his depth. 

Katie, very fortunately in Harry’s opinion, chooses that moment to interrupt to tell Harry that she’s closing off the coffee machine. It used to be that Harry would tell her what time to shut off the machine and pack up. Now, he muses, she tells him what to do. 

Harry sees Malfoy check his watch. It’s a nice watch, Harry thinks, but it catches his attention mostly because it is a muggle watch. Malfoy using muggle things? The world really was going mad.

“Do you need me to leave?” he hears Malfoy ask Katie. Harry wonders when Malfoy became considerate.

“You’re hardly in the way,” she replies, gesturing around them. “Do you like being in Siberia all the time or will you come out to be amongst the people one day?”

“I’m sure the people would love to have me out there,” he deadpans.

“You might be surprised,” Katie says optimistically. 

“Draco Malfoy, man of the people,” Harry remarks.

Malfoy snorts.

Katie hits him over the head with a tea towel.

~.~

“You could be more conciliatory, you know,” Katie argues, as they pack up the cafe together an hour later. Malfoy had left the shop not ten minutes ago and Katie is, for some inexplicable reason, throwing down the gauntlet for a former Death Eater.

“I wasn’t rude to him,” Harry protests. “He just gets on my nerves, that’s all.”

“Well I think he looks lonely,” Katie says.

“Why don’t you talk to him then, instead of forcing me to,” Harry grumbles as he scribbles down the takings for the day.

“I didn’t force you to,” she protests, dropping her wand hand mid-spell and scrougifying the menus stacked under the sink instead of the countertop. “You wanted to!”

Harry looks at her incredulously. 

“Anyway,” she says, flicking through a now-pristine menu. Some of the black ink appears to have been scrougified off. “You’ll have more opportunities to make him feel welcome, I suppose.”

“I’m never coming back here,” Harry mutters. “I quit.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, going back to cleaning the countertop. “But you’ll have to speak to him next Saturday.”

“Typically, you don’t continue to attend work after you quit,” Harry points out.

“After work,” she replies, a smile tugging at her lips. “I invited him to our Christmas party.”


	3. Christmas Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I grovel for your forgiveness on how delayed this chapter has been. I started working on it earlier this year and then COVID happened and the whole world went absolutely crazy. I mean, it's still crazy, but it took me a while to work out that I had to prioritise my escapism. So here is the next chapter and I am eternally grateful for anyone who has bothered to continue reading. I swear it won't take me as long next time.

Harry, predictably, is at a loss for words.

“What?” He says, hoping he sounds incredulous but actually sounds like he is choking on an every-flavour-bean.

“For Godric’s sakes Harry,” Katie replies, squatting back down to _scrougify_ the back of the cabinet under the machine. “We invited regulars last year! I thought you wanted a repeat of my incredible organisational feat.”

“Of course I want regulars invited!” Harry exclaims, a little shrilly. He needs to get a grip, he reminds himself quickly, or he will end up sounding like Aunt Petunia. “I just didn’t know-”

Shutting the cabinet door, Katie stands up and looks him in the eye. “Draco _is_ a regular, Harry. He comes here every Saturday without fail.”

“Does he just?” Harry mutters, sounding impertinent but reminding himself that this is _his_ cafe and if he doesn’t feel like dealing with Draco Malfoy on the one day of the year he intends to let his metaphorical hair down he shouldn’t have to.

“I can un-invite him,” Katie says softly, swiping a cleaning cloth from the bench and picking at it with her fingernails, “if you want.”

Harry turns to look at her. She avoids his eyes, steadfastly.

His stomach knots itself with the familiar feeling of anxiety. He can’t help it, he reasons. It is a universal truth that Harry Potter has an unquenchable complex for good deeds. It’s almost as if his overactive conscience can’t tell the difference between allowing someone to be mildly disappointed and allowing someone to commit violent murder. It’s all the same in that he has an insatiable _need_ to stop it from happening. 

Harry can’t bear Katie looking forlorn and guilty, even if it is her fault that she invited a former blood purist and Harry’s sworn arch nemesis to an event that Harry is funding and is obliged to attend. If Harry has to cope with Draco Malfoy for a night, he can do that, he thinks. He’s even managed to have two vaguely mature conversations with him over two weeks. The very fact that neither Harry nor Malfoy drew a wand on either of those occasions is no mean feat. 

“No, don’t do that,” he says, sighing as he lowers himself onto the familiar wooden stool. One of his knees cracks, ominously. _Twenty bloody five_ , he thinks.

“Are you going to do it then?” she asks, shooting him a furtive look.

“Do what?” Harry asks, perplexed.

“Un-invite him?” 

Harry balks. Of course he isn’t. Even Draco Malfoy’s disappointment would be too much for him. Then again, Harry can’t help but wonder if Draco Malfoy would even be disappointed at being uninvited to an event hosted by Harry Potter. Harry thinks he may actually be relieved. Besides that, he knows Malfoy is a selfish prat and probably feels no urgent sense of obligation. Harry’s heart lightens.

“Nah,” Harry says, smiling at the thought. “Malfoy is an arrogant git. He’ll have something much more important to do, I’m sure.”

Katie lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

“You think he will actually come to an event hosted by _me_?” Harry asks, noticing Katie’s expression. “The sub-par drink options and general shabbiness of the staff will be enough to drive him away.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” Katie says, but adds nothing to her mysterious remark.

Harry’s curiosity piques with a tingle of anticipation running down his spine. He wants more answers, but he knows he is unlikely to get them from Katie. He has learned over their two years working together that it would be easier to escape Azkaban than get a secret out of her.

“Are you asking for a bet?” He asks, smirking at her slightly.

“You suggested it,” she winks, all worry vanishing from her face. “To be honest, I was worrying you were going to spontaneously give me the sack.”

Harry pauses for a moment in mock consideration.

“You’re fired,” he says, flicking another cloth at her.

Katie laughs and throws the cloth back at him.

“Harry Potter, who is the real boss here?”

~.~

The next Saturday, at an obscenely early hour, Harry rifles through his clothes desperately trying to find something visually pleasing.

He’s endured another one of _those nights_ , where he sleeps fitfully and wakes up every hour, terrified, hot and uncomfortable. Those nights where a tent in a snowy forest haunts him and he can viscerally hear Hermione screaming for mercy at the cruel, twisting hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. 

He gives up trying around four-thirty when he yells himself awake and finds his hair limp, clinging to his forehead and sheets saturated in his own sweat. He growls in annoyance which soothes his frustration, but it settles uncomfortably back into resigned acceptance as he steps into the shower.

This is what life is now, Harry supposes as he runs his hands through his hair under the comforting jet of hot water. At least during his years of being in mortal peril he could do something about the near-constant anxiety and fear. Now he just dreams about those times with no ability to make the seemingly endless loop of memories stop. There’s next to nothing he can do about the nightmares and the sleep deprivation, but they’re things that he has unwillingly accepted are likely to accompany him to the grave.

After ten minutes of warm, comforting shower and sombre early-morning reflection, he stares at himself through the Everclear Mirror that Hermione got him for Christmas a few years ago. He’s not sure why Hermione thinks this is something he particularly _needs_ , it’s not as if he doesn’t see his be-speckled mug on every street corner most days, but he supposes it’s one of those endlessly practical things that Hermione buys in bulk and gifts to everyone. He makes a mental note to ask Ginny.

His skin looks unnaturally sallow and is adorned by dark purplish green under-eye circles which make him look like he’s been gently beaten up. What a sight, he thinks, as he grabs a bunch of muggle skincare products Hermione gave him the Christmas before and tries to work out which one goes before which and why all of the things in his house appear to have been gifted to him.

Twenty minutes later he stands by the kettle, fresh pot of tea brewing and wondering how he ended up living a life that was so far removed from the millionaire-bachelor that people expect of him. He wonders if those people really know how many times he wakes up so early it feels like lunch time when the sun finally pokes its rays through the gaps in the thick, heavy curtains of Grimmauld place. 

Harry also wonders how his rubbish sleep is going to make him feel later tonight, when he’s hopefully seven glasses deep in elf-made wine. It’s with this thought that his stomach lurches a tiny bit and he wonders if he really has developed the ability to predict his own hangovers. Then he realises it’s because he’s remembered that Katie decided to invite his sworn-enemy to his Christmas party. One that’s annoyingly well dressed, and despite Harry’s hopes, could actually decide to show up.

It’s with this thought that he ends up rifling through his closet before six in the morning, trying to find appropriate attire for an event that is at least twelve hours away. He finds nothing. Usually, he muses, a combination of a well-worn sweater and the only pair of jeans he owns would do. He has put on a few kilograms since he bought them, he supposes, but the stress of working two jobs necessitates a lot of snacking, drinking, forgetting to cook dinner and having Italian takeaway five nights a week. In retrospect, he’s surprised he hasn’t yet turned into a lasagne.

His conscious mind prickles at the thought that the revelation that he actually owns nothing _nice_ is linked to caring what a posh, judgemental, former Death Eater thinks of him. But then again, Harry is self-reflective enough to know that not liking someone and not caring what they think are two different matters entirely. Arguably, Harry has always cared _too much_ what Draco Malfoy thinks, and therein lies the real issue.

He holds up a thick, blue and gold sweater from Molly emblazoned with the letter “H” and decides that perhaps it is time to invest in clothes that he actually purchases with his own galleons. As with the skincare and the vanity and the countless other miscellaneous items in his house, nothing seems to have been intentionally put here by him. Plus, he could use the time to do his usual last minute Christmas shopping. He makes a mental note not to buy Ron another set of dragon-hide gloves this year.

Of course, it’s far too early to be anywhere close to Diagon Alley now, so Harry rummages through his draws and pulls out a pair of old, slightly damp smelling running shorts and a hoodie that is a nostalgic, hand-me-down from Dudley. He has no idea how he still owns it, but he definitely doesn’t mind getting it dirty and sweaty.

~.~

It takes Harry all of five minutes to remember that he absolutely despises running. 

In fairness to runners, Harry is horribly unfit and hasn’t slept enough in years, but the aching in his knees and the shortness of his breath is more than apparent after three kilometres and it takes all of his willpower to make it back to Grimmauld place without stopping.

He isn’t sure why he makes the decision to partake in that unusual form of self-flagellation, but surprisingly he actually does feel better for it after he takes a second shower, eats a relatively healthy breakfast (which doesn’t include four sausages and white bread slathered with butter _and_ peanut butter) and fire-calls Ginny at the completely reasonable hour of seven-thirty. 

“It’s _seven o’clock_ Harry James Potter,” she growls, “what on earth could you need?”

“Seven-thirty,” he corrects quickly.

Ginny groans and pushes her fringe out of her face sleepily. “Point is, the time has a number lower than ten at the start and it’s an off-season Saturday.”’

“I need your help, Gin,” he says, beseechingly. 

“With what?” she responds, expectantly.

Harry tries to skirt around it, but what he really needs is a personal stylist. Someone who will help him find clothes that he actually cares about, and isn’t afraid to tell him that something makes him look like a cross between Dudley Dursley and a younger and more eccentric Albus Dumbledore. 

“I can’t believe you woke me up for this,” Ginny says crossly when she twirls out of the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron two hours later. “If you needed fashion advice, you could have asked Neville.”

Harry shoots her a look. As soon as they’re in the courtyard he counters, “just because Neville is _gay_ doesn’t mean he’s stylish.”

“But he is stylish,” Ginny points out, rummaging around in her cloak pocket for her wand with one hand and shaking soot out of her braid with the other. “Besides, I know that not everyone who is gay is stylish. Case-in-point.”

Harry stares. She looks pointedly at him.

Harry opens and closes his mouth like a trout. At some point he manages to splutter at her, “I’m not gay!” 

“Oook,” Ginny says slowly, in a way that makes it clear she thinks he’s a little bit stupid. 

Harry watches her with absolute incredulity as she pulls her wand out deftly. “What?” she says, looking up at Harry’s expression.

“I’m not-” Harry tries again, fairly sure his eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline.

“I heard you the first time, you troll,” she says, matter-of-factly. 

Harry has a slight crisis. He hasn’t even _thought_ about kissing anyone, let alone actually kissed someone, since he stopped kissing Ginny five years ago. 

He doesn’t often think about the fact that he’s lonely and never goes on dates and prefers his own company because honestly, he doesn’t really care. He hasn’t even bothered to take stock of why he doesn’t care, either. If he had to rationalise it, he would say it’s because his work schedule is so packed, he simply doesn’t have the time. A small part of him worries from time to time that he’s simply too broken and riddled with insidious post-traumatic stress to even have feelings like that, anymore. 

None of that means he isn’t strictly heterosexual, though. It just so happens that all of the people that he’s rejected over the years are women. Nothing more.

“But I-” he stammers, looking for reassurance.

“Don’t have a crisis, Harry,” she says, with bemused satisfaction. “No one is asking you to snog anyone.”

Harry’s mouth opens and closes again hopelessly, and then he lets the expression slide off his face. 

“Right. Cool,” he says, willing his breathing to go back to normal but recognising the uncomfortable feeling of anxiety wrapping itself around his stomach.

Ginny doesn’t bother to notice Harry’s emotional turmoil, as she moves to tap the brick in the wall. “Wait,” he says, coming back to his senses and pulling two flasks from his cloak. He tosses one to her. “To avoid being harassed during the busiest shopping period of the year?”

Ginny’s lightning fast reflexes don’t miss a beat as she catches the silver object, but she stares at the flask for a second before reaching over and hitting him over the back of the head with it.

“What now?!” Harry cries, clutching the back of his head.

“How on earth are we going to tell if Harry Potter looks like a blast-ended skrewt in things if you look like someone else?” Ginny asks. Her tone is slightly incredulous but her mouth twitches like it always does when she’s trying not to laugh.

She tosses it back to him and he catches it.

“You’re really thick sometimes Harry,” she laughs as she returns to brick tapping.

~.~

As it turns out, Harry is very happy with his choice of shopping assistant, despite the lump that is beginning to form on the back of his head. He’s forgotten completely about the quarter-life crisis he was enduring not two hours ago and is instead trying to coax Christmas present ideas out of her.

“Hermione wants that new cookbook and perfume set by Gwenog Jones,” Ginny says, pointing at a lurid green hardback on the shelf of Flourish and Blotts which is accompanied by an equally eye catching glass bottle.

“Perfume and cooking?” Harry asks doubtfully, picking up the copy and flipping it over to read the blurb.

“She’s really been diversifying since she left the Harpies,” Ginny says nonchalantly, “maybe I should start a perfume line.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, we can call it e _au de_ grass clippings and leather polish.”

He can’t see her face, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes.

He picks up the set anyway, ignores the pointed stares from people around him and shouts the cashier down about insisting on paying.

“Must you always cause a scene?” Ginny asks, shoving him out the front door.

The thing is, despite the inquisitive stares and the occasional autograph requests, it really isn’t that bad, Harry thinks. In fact, despite catching a _Daily Prophet_ photographer snapping pictures of them while they look at new broomsticks, Harry is having a good time. He doesn't even mind when Ginny goads them on by kissing him on the cheek in full view of everyone and the shutter clicks ominously from behind him.

“I can see it now,” she cackles as they haul their considerable amount of shopping bags into Harry’s cafe and find a table. “Bonding over Broomsticks - The Chosen One rekindles old Weasley flame.”

“Hopefully they’ll say I took an interest in you after I realised you were becoming more famous than me,” Harry smirks, tossing her a paper menu.

“I _am_ more famous than you,” she replies, flipping the menu over and running her finger down the list of items. “I can’t decide. Can you just tell me what to order?”

“Yes, the Benedict,” he says without a second thought and uses his wand to tick the two orders and flicks it back toward the kitchen. 

“Watch yourself,” says a familiar voice and Katie comes bounding over to them.

“He’s being a menace today,” Ginny says fondly and stands up from the table to envelop Katie in a hug.

“He’s a menace every day,” Katie retorts with a grin.

“I’ll still sack you,” Harry mutters darkly.

“Not on the day of the Christmas party Harry, that’s just cruel,” Ginny chides.

“Are you coming tonight, Ginny?” Katie asks expectantly.

Ginny sighs heavily. “If i can _possibly_ keep my eyes open after being woken up at seven in the morning.”

“It was seven-thirty!” Harry protests. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“You’re the one threatening to fire your only barista on a weekend shift,” Katie points out. “That’s fairly dramatic when you don’t know how to use the coffee machine properly.”

Ginny cackles again and accidentally knocks the decorative plant off the table.

“You’re the one who insisted on inviting Draco Malfoy for Merlins’ sakes,” Harry hisses, looking furtively toward the back table to make sure it isn’t occupied by a blond demon. Thankfully, the table is empty.

“You did?” Ginny asks inquisitively from below the table as she _reparos_ the plant. “Why?”

“Because he’s a regular and that’s what my mandated invite list includes!” Katie says, with exasperation.

“Seems reasonable,” Ginny replies, poking her head out from the underside of the table and placing the plant gingerly back on the table top.

Harry coughs loudly. “In what world does inviting Draco Malfoy anywhere constitute being _reasonable_.”

Ginny shrugs. “He doesn’t affect me that badly, I suppose,” she says. “He’s just a scrawny prat.”

“He’s not scrawny; he’s over six foot,” Harry retorts, then immediately feels a bit weird. Why does he know things like that? He shouldn’t know things like that.

Ginny and Katie each arch an eyebrow in unison. It’s a bit creepy, if he’s being honest.

“What?!” he exclaims, feeling a bit defensive.

“Nothing,” Ginny and Katie reply together. They smirk conspiratorially though and it’s deeply unsettling, Harry thinks.

~.~

Harry absolutely forgets about his Draco Malfoy-induced anxiety as soon as the Christmas party begins. The buzz of friendly faces, mead, wine and music is making Harry feel unseasonably warm, satiated and comfortable in a way that is unquestionably rare for him.

He totally forgets about the restless anticipation he had been experiencing as he got dressed in his new, properly fitting black jeans, white shirt and emerald cashmere sweater that Ginny forced him to spend too many galleons on. This is his comfortable place and he’s having the most fun he’s probably had since this time last year.

Katie, with the unwilling indenture of her brothers, has transformed the space from casual coffee shop into a Christmas-themed castle, complete with some really complex spellwork which has made the ceiling look like the black starry-sky of the north pole and plastic reindeer which have been charmed to throw their heads and paw at the ground at random intervals. She’s even managed to hang a humongous banner over the tables which reads “The Annual St. Drogo Christmas Bash,” in sparkly green and red letters. 

He envelops her in a side hug after a few glasses of Odgen’s Finest and promises her a substantial raise he can’t quite deliver on if he thinks about the financials of the business, but knows he will make it work regardless.

She laughs and shoves him in the side, then turns and sticks a cigarette in her mouth and saunters out to the side of the shop which has been turned into a makeshift smokers area. He wants to say something but doesn’t, as he watches her flop down on a bench next to a mysterious looking character in a hooded cloak who Harry can’t quite get a glimpse of. 

At that moment Levi turns on the coffee machine and promises everyone espresso martinis despite not knowing how to use it and Harry goes and saves the day because, despite what Katie might say, he knows how to use the coffee machine competently enough. Levi pours very generous vodka shots and charms the magical blender to shake itself violently with too much liquid in it until there’s literally espresso martinis for everyone who has crammed themselves into the establishment and then some.

At one point Ron grabs him and pulls him into a tight hug and tells Harry that he’s the best friend he’s ever had and Harry laughs and leans into it but really feels like he wants to cry because he’s a bit drunk and has been fretting about losing track of his best friends for years. They're all growing up and getting married and for _Godric’s sakes_ having children. He teases Hermione a bit and asks how she is going to teach a child to read before they can speak but deep down he knows that really, she could have been his surrogate mother for all of the looking after him she’s done.

Then someone manages to turn the music up to an indecent level for a rendition of 'I Kissed A Girl' which, despite being a muggle song has apparently become the ubiquitous anthem for 20-somethings all over Britain, including ones with wands. Harry tries to shout at Neville that he doesn’t dance and anyway, he’s pretty sure Neville has never even _kissed a girl_ , but he gets dragged into the throng anyway.

At some point someone decides to save all of their eardrums and turns it down but not before Mrs Hodgkins who lives upstairs from the Apothecary decides to complain and turns up on their doorstep. Someone pulls her in and shoves a half-warm espresso martini in her hand and forty minutes later Harry sees her chatting animatedly to a pot plant.

He gets passed around from person to person, group to group, steadily getting more wasted and having more and more fun. At one point someone breaks into a random chorus of 'Happy Birthday' and everyone joins in and puts 'Harry' in the space where you’re supposed to say the birthday person’s name. Harry has half a mind to tell them it should be 'Jesus' instead because, although he isn’t a religious person, they’re either a solid five months too late or seven months too early.

Someone, he _thinks_ it’s Ginny, yells “Speech!” after that, and forces him to get up on the bench and make an impromptu speech about the year. He resolves to murder Ginny because there’s nothing he hates more than random speeches and everyone looking at him and expecting him to say something profound. 

It starts quite well he thinks, thanking everyone for their contributions to St. Drogo the best coffee shop on Diagon Alley, until he rambles off track and starts explaining to everyone that they’ll probably see a two page spread in the _Prophet_ tomorrow about Ginny and him and it’s all untrue of course, although he really does love Ginny just not like _that_. Then Ginny comes up on the makeshift stage and kisses him on the cheek and announces to everyone that in fact, they’re getting engaged, and everyone laughs. Harry shouts everyone down and insists they’re not really getting engaged and Ginny stomps on his foot and tells him of course they’re not and everyone clearly knows that and he needs to remember how to recognise a joke. His eyes water a bit but it’s okay because everyone claps and tells him he’s a _good lad_ , even people who are clearly much younger than him.

It isn’t until he is hugging Ron and Hermione goodbye and Hermione whispers to him that Katie might have had one too many espresso martinis that he comes down off his high and starts worrying about something. Most of the people in the cafe-turned-winter-wonderland have patted him roughly on the back or enveloped him in a hug or (in Ginny’s case) sloppily kissed him again and stumbled out the door into the winter night.

He tells Levi that they’re closed for tomorrow and can deal with the mess in the morning, or afternoon, or whenever they get over their hangovers and shoos him out as well despite his mild protestations. Then he goes to look for Katie.

He finds her with her head slumped on the shoulder of the weird, hooded person out the back. Harry gets a shiver of anticipation and subconsciously his right hand closes around his wand handle in the back of his jeans. Something about it looks odd, although weirdly it doesn’t _feel_ odd, and Harry worries that maybe his inebriation has inhibited his Auror-sense.

As he gets closer he can hear the hooded person softly speaking to Katie and her sleepy laughter emanating in reply. She’s quite clearly leaning into the other person, and there’s something about it that looks platonic and supportive and Harry can’t really say why he thinks that but it’s just the overall impression he gets.

And then the hooded person pushes back the hood and Harry sees a shocking mop of white blond hair and he _knows_ who it is immediately. A surge of something which he’s fairly certain is irritation but might actually be something else he can’t quite place rushes through him and he freezes on the spot and just says, “Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s head whips around and he cocks an eyebrow at Harry as if to say “what’s your business?” Harry actually feels irritated at that point because he’s really quite sick of people lifting their eyebrows at him today and even though he’s surprised to see Malfoy, Malfoy clearly isn’t surprised to see him, which means Malfoy has been lurking out here in the dark all night and _watching_.

“Why didn’t you tell me you owned this coffee shop, Potter?” Malfoy asks in his infuriatingly relaxed drawl and Harry is quite put off by that question because in all honesty he isn’t quite sure why. 

He elects to simply ignore the question and crouches down next to Malfoy’s left knee and Katie’s head which has slowly started to sink down the side of Malfoy’s arm.

“How many espresso martinis, Katie?” he asks, grabbing her arm and pulling her up like a rag doll. She immediately sinks her head back onto Malfoy’s shoulder and looks blearily at Harry.

“Ssstill gonna give-me-a-raise?” she slurs through thick lips and what Harry imagines will be a very dry mouth tomorrow. 

“If you don’t freeze to death,” he smiles, patting her knee affectionately. “Let’s get you home.”

“I don’t think she should side-along like this, Potter,” Malfoy says pointedly. “I can get her home.”

Harry bristles. “What? You? The person who let her get in this state?”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “You do realise she’s an adult who is perfectly capable of making her own decisions.”

Harry snorts derisively in response. “Like I’m going to believe that you haven’t been plying her with drinks all night, Malfoy. Seems like something you’d do.”

“Why?” Malfoy snaps back, “I have no interest in getting someone ridiculously drunk, unlike you who clearly can’t manage to impart some desire for _self-control_ onto their guests.”

Harry’s hands ball into fists at his sides, the spark of indignation well and truly lit. If there is one thing Draco Malfoy does very well, his subconscious reasons, it is hitting all of Harry’s buttons until one of them breaks.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know what _fun_ looks like, you pretentious wanker,” he snarls.

Malfoy smirks in that infuriating way that makes Harry want to punch him right in his smart mouth.

“Just because I don’t feel the need to drink myself into a stupor doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have fun, Potter,” he says, “although I wouldn’t expect you to have enough common sense to know that.”

He hoists Katie up to standing, one arm over his shoulder and snakes an arm around her waist for support. Harry eyes him suspiciously, hot, prickly anger coursing inside him.

“I’m not letting you leave here without me,” he says, sticking his chin out defiantly. “As her employer, I have a duty of care-”

“Whatever, Potter,” Malfoy cuts him off dismissively. “But we’re going to use my method of transportation, so you’re going to have to get a bit cosy.”

Harry hasn’t the faintest what that means, but ten minutes after quickly charming the doors locked and walking at an impressively brisk pace through Diagon Alley, out of the Leaky Cauldron and onto the streets of Muggle London, he finds himself chasing Malfoy through a parking garage, who’s inexplicably now carrying Katie in his arms and still managing to walk faster than Harry has ever walked in his life.

He stops to catch his breath and sees the lights flicker on a sleek, black sports car to his right. He stares, incredulously at Malfoy who is motioning for him to hurry up.

“Get in Potter, we’re going to have to put her on your lap,” Malfoy instructs, and Harry is quite honestly too dumbstruck to do anything but comply.

Malfoy deposits Katie gently onto Harry’s lap and shuts the door. 

“Put the seatbelt over both of you and for the love of God, please don’t do anything that will draw the attention of the good officers of the law or I will be sending the fine to you for payment,” he says, sliding into the drivers’ seat as the car purrs to life pleasantly. 

Harry is still at a loss for words and can’t even form a comprehensible thought except that Malfoy _drives a car_ and a _nice car_ at that. Harry can’t even remember the last time he went in a car but he suspects it was probably with the Dursleys and their car was so nondescript and bland and Dursleyish that he can’t even remember what make it was.

“Potter, can you please focus on making sure she doesn’t get a neck injury, or worse?” Malfoy hisses and Harry notices that Katie’s head is wobbling precariously off the side of his shoulder. “I’d ask you to do a sobriety charm, but those things are hell, so the very least you can do is make sure we don’t accidentally kill her.”

Harry nestles Katie’s head back against his shoulder and shoots a furtive look at Malfoy.

“Is your driving that bad?” he quips, and he sees the corner of Malfoy’s lips turn up slightly. 

“I hardly think I’ll be taking driving tips from someone who doesn’t know how to drive,” Malfoy replies, as he smoothly rounds the last corner of the parking garage, indicates and pulls out onto Gerrard Place.

“Wait, how do you know where she lives?” Harry says, as Malfoy takes a left on Shaftesbury Avenue, then an immediate right down Dean Street.

“She told me,” Malfoy deadpans. “I’m sure you’d like to hear about me stalking her, but it’s all very mundane.”

Katie murmurs softly against Harry’s neck and he pats her back softly.

“I didn’t say that,” he mumbles, but he was unquestionably thinking it.

They lapse into a comfortable silence and Harry is lulled by the warmth of the heater and the powerful whirr of the cars’ engine as Malfoy carefully steers through the thinning traffic on Theobalds Road and Rosebery Avenue and out towards Stoke Newington. He glances at the clock, it’s almost one, and wonders how everyone managed to get so drunk so early. Everyone except Malfoy, it seems.

“Why did you learn to drive?” Harry asks, after fifteen minutes of silence.

“Because I needed to,” Malfoy says, in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t want to explain any further.

“And I suppose you wanted to buy the most nondescript, inconspicuous car on the market,” Harry quips, free hand feeling the soft leather seat underneath him.

Malfoy smirks. “You don’t like the Gallardo, Potter?”

“No, I like it,” Harry says quickly, without really thinking. “It’s very...sexy.” 

He immediately makes a mental note to kick himself in the face for such a ridiculous comment.

Malfoy snorts in a very undignified sort of way and doesn’t respond. Somehow, it makes Harry feel even more stupid. 

“Well, it is sort of like the Batmobile,” Harry says before he can stop the words coming out of his mouth. He chastises himself for forgetting that Malfoy is an entitled pureblood and didn’t grow up as a muggle, stealing Dudley’s barely-read Batman comics and playing computer games set in Gotham City when the Dursleys were out of the house.

To Harry’s complete shock, Malfoy laughs and says, “Bruce Wayne is a hero, Potter. I hardly think we are alike.”

Harry honestly doesn’t know how to respond and just says “er, yeah i guess” like the idiot he is, and next thing he knows they’ve pulled up outside Katie’s flat and Malfoy is rummaging around in her bag, fishing out a key, picking her up off his lap and carrying her up into the house. 

Harry sits in the Gallardo and wonders why he hasn’t known these strange things about Malfoy before. That he drives a car and understands muggle pop culture references and knows where Harry’s staff live. It’s all very disconcerting.

Ten minutes later, Malfoy descends from the flat and slides back into the car. 

“Oh. You’re still here,” he says upon seeing Harry.

Harry balks, then he realises he’s still sitting in Malfoy’s car when he could be outside getting himself home. 

“Yeah, right, I should probably um-” Harry replies, a little flustered because he should have thought of that earlier but he actually quite likes sitting in the Gallardo and weirdly, talking to Malfoy. 

For some reason he has decided to do the seatbelt back up like Malfoy is going to drive _him_ home too and suddenly the offending item is trapping him in a death grip. He has half a mind to _releshio_ it off of himself but he’s fairly certain that Malfoy might actually try to murder him for ruining his car and then they’d have to duel in the middle of Stoke Newington and the Ministry would have to obliviate everyone in sight. 

“Do you live close to here?” He asks conversationally, trying desperately to distract Malfoy from the fact that he can’t work a simple seatbelt. Of course, Harry knows full well from his slightly unethical employment and location search that Malfoy lives in Bayswater and not Stoke Newington or the surrounds.

“No,” Malfoy says abruptly. “Honestly, Potter just stay put and I’ll drive you home. It’s painful watching you do that.” 

“Do you know where I live too?!” Harry exclaims, whipping around in a much more terrified way than he intends to.

Malfoy looks at him for a split second and then bursts into peals of very un-Malfoyish laughter at what Harry can only imagine is the horrified look on his face. It’s sort of disarming the way that the usually haughty, aristocratic face is broken into an unguarded look of pleasure, even when it’s at his expense. 

Malfoy actually laughs for a good twenty-something seconds before turns back to face Harry and snickers.

“Are you finished?” Harry asks, narrowing his eyes, but he can feel the shadow of a smile on his lips anyway and bites into his bottom one to avoid it showing up on his face.

“Are you _scared_ of me, Potter?” Malfoy quips, still grinning.

“You wish, Malfoy,” Harry mutters.

Malfoy grins again. Harry wonders when Draco Malfoy’s smile turned from the ugly, smarmy expression he remembers from Hogwarts and into something that vaguely resembles friendliness.

“Look, how about this,” Malfoy says, and Harry thinks he can’t quite remember them being so close before.

“We’ll take this back to my place,” he starts (and Harry actually gulps), “and you can buy me a drink at the pub around the corner to thank me for saving you from a workplace relations nightmare. Then you can apparate back to your safe house and not have to worry about a dangerous, deranged criminal like me knowing your location.”

“Okay,” Harry almost whispers, because for some reason he’s still stuck a bit on the _my place_ part. His brain feels weirdly disconnected from his body which is strange because he stopped drinking at least an hour ago.

“Potter?”

“Mm?”

“Are you sure you’re not scared?” Malfoy says with a smirk, as he turns back to face the empty street and revs the engine.

~.~

It turns out Harry is very scared. Malfoy’s normal driving is like a fucking maniac and it seems with every risky lane change or corner Harry’s heart is about to leap right out of his mouth. He actually has to close his eyes for one part and Malfoy slows down and asks him if he’s going to be sick on the leather interior.

Once he’s satisfied Harry isn’t actually at risk of chundering, he speeds right back up and continues his death defying idiocy right back across London into Bayswater where he takes a sharp left from Queensway and around a few more corners and rolls the Lamborghini into an underground carpark off a very expensive looking street.

“Do you need help with the seatbelt this time, Potter?” Malfoy asks as he cuts the engine and slides out of the car. 

Thankfully, Harry’s seatbelt actually releases him this time, and so he can make a somewhat dignified exit although he’s fairly sure he’s as pale as a ghost and wonders if his legs still work. This is possibly the most thrilling Saturday night he has had since the War, and that’s not necessarily a good thing.

He _sort of_ wants to see what Malfoy’s lair looks like but before he knows it, he’s being grabbed swiftly by the elbow by said Malfoy and marched out a side door of the garage which leads back onto the street. 

“Hurry up Potter,” Malfoy growls as Harry struggles to keep up with the pace. Why Malfoy walks like he’s in a professional competition is baffling, Harry thinks. Normal people just don’t _do this_.

“You walk like it’s a bloody Olympic sport,” Harry complains, practically jogging.

“It _is_ an Olympic sport,” Malfoy mutters and Harry hasn’t the foggiest how Malfoy even knows what the Olympics are, let alone what sports are represented, so he just shakes his head and feels relieved when Malfoy steers them into a dimly lit, grungy pub that’s somehow still open despite it being well past two.

“This is...nice,” Harry says, uncertainly.

“No it isn’t,” says Malfoy bluntly. “Don’t be a prat, Potter.”

He practically pushes Harry into a chair and stalks up to the bar, bringing back two pints and sets them down.

“I thought you said I had to buy them,” Harry protests.

“And do you have any muggle money on you?” Malfoy asks, eyebrows raised.

Harry has to concede that he does not. He hasn’t, in recent memory, ever bothered to exchange his galleons for pounds, because he has no reason to. He lives almost exclusively in wizarding England, and for some reason, Malfoy doesn’t seem to be doing the same.

“You have to tell me,” he says, taking a sip of his pint and looking up at Malfoy, “why you drive a car, have muggle money, live in Bayswater and know what the bloody _Olympic Games_ are.”

“This is a gratitude drink, Potter,” Malfoy retorts, “not the Inquisition.”

“You could have had all the free drinks you wanted at _my_ Christmas party,” Harry says pointedly. 

Malfoy puts his drink down on the table and flips the cardboard coaster through his long, pale fingers.

“If you must know, this is how I live now,” he says, grey eyes staring determinedly at the table, “since the Ministry made me an outcast.”

Harry snorts, “don’t have a pity party Malfoy, you’re bloody lucky to have escaped Azkaban and besides, no one ever _banished_ you.”

Malfoy stares icily at him. “It makes it a bit hard to exist in wizarding England without galleons, you halfwit.”

“You pay with sickles and knuts at St. Drogo,” Harry points out, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Thats kind of the point,” Malfoy deadpans, “one cannot live on knuts alone.”

Harry pauses. “What do you mean?” he asks, genuinely confused.

Malfoy snorts. “Well Potter, when a civilisation has been brought to the brink of destruction, the powers that be generally need an injection of funds.”

“And?” Harry asks, still not quite grasping the point.

“Oh come _on_ ,” Malfoy says, impatiently. “You didn’t think the Ministry was going to let powerful, wealthy families escape Azkaban and _not_ have to pay some kind of monetary penance, did you?”

“But galleons were never part of your plea deal,” Harry says, convinced he has seen the Malfoy file before and never remembering a monetary figure appearing in the records.

Malfoy’s brow unfurrows and he cocks an eyebrow. “Have you been analysing my criminal record, Harry?”

Harry’s face burns slightly at the accusation (albeit true) and the oddly jarring use of his first name.

“Well, I’m an Auror,” he says with what he hopes is conviction but what sounds sort of like an excuse. “I’m going through wizarding records all day.”

Malfoy snorts. “Potter, you own St. Drogo.”

“And?”

“So you’re a business owner, not an Auror.”

Harry frowns at the accusation. “I’m not lying, Malfoy. I actually do own a coffee shop _and_ I’m an Auror, if you must know. I thought I already told you I have two jobs, the first time I saw you at the cafe?”

Malfoy chokes slightly on his pint but somehow turns it into a respectable cough.

“Yes but an Auror? Impossible, how do you have the time?” he asks.

Harry sighs. “Truthfully, I don’t. I just have really good staff and an ability get by on very little sleep.”

Surprisingly, Malfoy looks at him with something like respect. Harry has never, ever been on the receiving end of it so he isn’t one hundred percent sure that’s what it is. It might be indigestion. 

“Anyway,” he says, swiftly changing the topic, “explain to me about these _reparations_.”

Malfoy’s eyes go hard again and Harry’s heart skips a little in anticipation. “It’s your Ministry, Potter, why can’t you ask them?”

“I’m asking you,” he replies, insistently. 

“Well I won’t tell you, so you’re going to have to go through your precious _files_ to find out,” Malfoy says insolently and slams his pint glass back on the table, empty. 

“I’m having another,” he declares. “You owe me double now.” 

~.~

Harry isn’t quite sure where the time goes but all of a sudden it’s four in the morning and he’s standing on Moscow Road in Bayswater and there’s a light dusting of snow falling on his head as he waits for Malfoy to finish his cigarette.

The alcohol has made him warm and fuzzy and he doesn’t feel the cold of the snowflakes falling on his cheeks. Only that they’re slightly wet and run down his face a bit. He wonders if he’s actually sober enough not to splinch himself on the apparition home.

Somehow, he spent a solid two hours sitting in a bar, talking amicably with Draco Malfoy about things ranging from coffee beans to muggle movies and somehow, he feels like they never ran out of things to say. 

They don’t even bother to revisit the reason that Malfoy lives in muggle London, only that he does and he owns a flashy sports car and works in finance. How that happens, Harry hasn’t a clue, but he swiftly puts his fingers in his ears when Malfoy starts talking about taking certain _liberties_ to make sure he passed the muggle certification standard and Harry has to quickly remind him that Harry really is an Auror and _probably shouldn’t know these things._

One thing they don’t talk about is Hogwarts, which is a relief because the Hogwarts-Malfoy that Harry remembers is a merciless bully and an absolute prat and this Malfoy doesn’t seem at all like that. In fact, Harry has to admit that he sort of _enjoys_ this new Malfoy with his weird knowledge of muggle pop culture which is admittedly far better than Harry’s.

It’s oddly refreshing really. Harry feels like maybe next time Malfoy comes into the cafe he won’t be rude-on-purpose to him, even if he does drink soy.

Malfoy stubs the cigarette butt out against the public bin and flicks the butt in. It’s very _dirty_ and _unrefined_ for a Malfoy, Harry thinks, and he has to admit he kind of likes it.

“This snow is ghastly,” Malfoy says with disdain as he runs a hand roughly through his now-wet hair. “I’m going home.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry mumbles, trying to find the right parting words to your former arch-nemesis who has actually turned out to be a half decent human being. “Well, thanks for tonight, and um...I’ll see you soon?”

Malfoy half smiles and says “okay,” in a cool and nonchalant way, and Harry feels like he’s drowning in his own awkwardness.

“Good night, Potter,” Malfoy says, and sticks out a hand.

Harry grasps it, for what is the very first time in his life, and shakes.

“Good night, Malfoy,” he responds, and actually smiles.

He watches Malfoy walk a little further down Moscow Road before ducking into an alleyway and mercifully ending up in one piece on the front step of Grimmauld Place.

He keeps smiling as he opens the door and walks inside and collapses into bed. He doesn’t have a single nightmare, either. 

He has half a mind in the morning to turn up on Malfoy’s front doorstep and ask him if he wants coffee and a hangover potion, but he thinks that could be a bit weird and full on for someone you just tried to make friends with.

As it turns out, Harry doesn’t have much of a chance to make friends, anyway, because the very next week, The Bad Thing happens.


End file.
